Dylan's Tale (High Flyer)
by cathrl
Summary: Anderson's still trying to find new candidates for a second team to take the pressure off G-Force, especially now Mark isn't around. Not that anyone who might be a candidate knows what's going on, of course...
1. Chapter 1

You should be warned that this is set after the end of the TV series. Canon is over. The universe may not finish the story in the same state it started out in. In any case, this is set in my AU, which contains several recurring original characters. This is an introduction to a new original character and while G-Force members do appear, they are not the main focus of the fic. If you're not familiar with my fic, I don't recommend starting here.

Bonus points to anyone who recognises the other dubbed anime series which a couple of the characters here pay homage to :)

This fic follows on from "All Good Things" and "Coming to an End" and certain comments will make very little sense if you haven't read them first. If you'd like to, they're in the archives here.

Warnings: some mild swearing.

Thanks to my husband for beta-reading.

As always: Battle of the Planets belongs to Sandy Frank, Gatchaman belongs to Tatsunoko, and all comments are very welcome.

(The double title is because this was originally posted over on Gatchfanfic as two separate stories several years apart.)

* * *

 **Dylan's Tale**

"Sixty-three," the instructor intoned, handing out the first scoresheet. "Thirty-seven - see me for an extra practise schedule. Fifty-two - that's an improvement, keep it up. Seventy-eight. Seventy-six. Eighty-one. Ninety-four - congratulations, Mr North. Forty-two..."

"Gee, Dylan, you missed six," a voice muttered from behind him.

"Aw, leave the kid alone."

Dylan recognised both the voices, and the friendly humour behind it. Even if he did suspect there was more than a hint of jealousy deep down."

"...Sixty-three. That's all, folks. Mid-year interviews are tomorrow. Times are posted in the usual place. I'll see you again in the new year."

Whatever else he might have had to say was lost in the upwelling of slightly nervous, pretending to be excited, student babble. Dylan didn't join in. Ninety-four percent on this term's weapons course was, he was fairly sure, a high enough mark to pass the whole year. He could always improve, though. Tim might have teased him about missing six, but he was fully aware of where those six points had gone, and what he thought he'd done wrong each time.

"Interviews? Brrr. Who'll they give us this time?" said a voice behind him.

Dylan started to pay attention. "Won't they tell us beforehand?"

"Hell, no, not in senior year. Not even in junior. Last time it was Anderson himself, can you believe it? I nearly died!"

"You nearly died? I walked in there, and Phillips turned to him and said 'Mr Zimmerman has a fairly good grasp of the basic principles.' Man, I wanted the floor to open up."

"Made you work though, hasn't it?" Callen teased him

"Yeah." Tim thumped Dylan cheerfully between the shoulderblades. "Much good it's done me, though, since Wonder Boy joined us."

"All he needs to do now is grow!" another cadet chimed in.

"He's too busy achieving to grow!"

"Enough, already!" Callen James, general class peacemaker and organiser, raised her voice, and as usual everyone fell into line. "He said interview times are up. Doesn't anyone else want to know how long they have to be nervous for tomorrow?"

Tim groaned. "No."

"I do." Dylan followed the crowd of older students which was drifting really quite determinedly towards the door. He'd been double-promoted at the start of the year, right from sophomore to senior. He'd been more than ready for it - but this put him in his final year at the ISO Academy at barely sixteen, still with no real idea what he was going to do when he graduated. Even if one of the active security teams would have taken a sixteen-year-old, he didn't fulfil the height requirements for an active security officer - not a male one, anyway. Barely five foot six, Dylan hadn't been considered particularly short for a child growing up in rural North Wales. Here in the USA, most of his male classmates overtopped him by six inches or more. Tim, eighteen and six foot three, was well into the 'more' end of the spectrum.

"Dunno why I bother checking," Tim grumbled as they finally made their way to the front of the group. "I'm always the last interview of the day regardless."

"Deed-poll?" joked Dylan, scanning the central sheet for 'North'. "You could change your name. I recommend Aardvark."

"Yech. 'Tim Aardvark'. I think I'll stick with Zimmerman. Say, Dylan, they seem to have redefined the alphabet. You're down this end."

Dylan grinned. "Someone forgot to add the new kid to the class list?" It didn't matter to him. He noted the time, the room, and a complete lack of any information as to who the interview was actually with, and headed back to abandon his class notes in his room.

* * *

He felt very differently by the end of the following afternoon. Nobody would tell him who the interviewer was - apparently this was a final-year tradition, giving the late-alphabet folks the same shock as the As. It was all too clear that none of them had considered it a fun experience, though. Callen had still been a bizarre mixture of pale and flushed when he'd seen her earlier, and there wasn't much - he'd have said nothing - that flustered her. That was the point at which he'd gone back and polished his shoes again. The clock had crawled ever since. He'd shown five minutes earlier than the advised 'ten minutes in advance' for his interview time, and those fifteen minutes had lasted about a week.

Tim came out, as white as Dylan had ever seen him, and with barely enough composure to give him an encouraging thumbs-up, and the time for waiting was over. Dylan steeled himself, tugged the jacket of his uniform down to remove imaginary wrinkles, put his shoulders back, made a valiant effort to grow two inches, and marched into the interview room. He stopped at the desk and threw his most immaculate salute.

"Cadet North reporting as instructed."

"Very good, Cadet," the large, exceptionally blond man in the commander's uniform sitting on the left said. "Now, if you wouldn't mind closing the door..."

Dylan tried and failed to remember the parade ground version of how to do it correctly. The penultimate year at the Academy, the one they'd promoted him straight past, was the one where such things were learnt and drilled until they were second nature. He knew them, but those months of practice just weren't there. The correct form deserted him. So much for making a good impression. If they'd had 'ceremonial guard' on the list of things he might be suited for - most unlikely, given his lack of inches - he could see it fading by the second as he returned to the door, shut it with more of a bang than he'd intended, came back to the desk and returned to standing at attention, hoping it wasn't visible that his knees were trembling.

The other man behind the desk was Major Grant. Dylan had never met him, but his reputation preceded him. 'Only' a major, but this man was Anderson's deputy, was rumoured to run the security within black section itself. Even G-Force had to jump when he told them to. Grant was doing mid-year interviews? And who was the blond man? He didn't command any of the leading security teams, Dylan was sure of it.

"Sit down, please," the blond man said after what seemed like a ridiculously long wait. "I am Commander Nykinnen, and this is Major Grant."

"Thank you, sir." Dylan determinedly didn't glance at either of them as he pulled the chair out from where Tim must have left it, millimetre-perfect against the desk. He sat, back ramrod-straight, eyes forward, and waited.

"At ease, cadet." There was humour in Nykinnen's tone, and Dylan finally relaxed somewhat and allowed himself to make eye contact with his interviewers. What now? Was he supposed to say something? If he was, he had no idea what. He had introduced himself, hadn't he? Yes, he was sure of it.

"Have you ever seen a black section clearance form?" Grant asked him.

"No, sir."

"Do you want to?"

Dylan tried and failed to parse the question. Did he want to see a form? Would he sign a form? Did he think he was black section material? He didn't know what answer they expected - but they clearly did expect one. No rhetorical questions here. He settled on something non-specific.

"Sir. Everyone wants to work in black section, sir."

"You didn't answer the question."

 _Damn_. "I hope to be good enough some day to be offered the chance." _No, idiot. 'To some day be offered the chance'_. Even his grammar was deserting him.

Nykinnen smiled. "And what do you think of Team Seven?"

Team Seven? Nykinnen was Team Seven? Well, that explained why he'd never heard of him. Team Seven was the dumping-ground, the place people went who couldn't get a real posting. Not somewhere you looked to be going if you hoped to graduate top of your class, or at the very least in the top five. Dylan contemplated flattery, and decided that with Grant there honesty was his only option.

"I'd not considered it, sir. I'm hoping for a more active posting." Team Three was what he wanted, the ISO fighter pilot wing - but that was still a far-off dream and was based on him having time to put in hours of simulator practise next semester to turn talent into skill. He wasn't ready to tell anyone about that one yet.

Grant simply recovered a document from his briefcase, reached across the desk, and slapped it down in front of him. Dylan was two sentences in before realisation hit.

"Sir - I thought all official ISO USA documents were in English."

"This one is required to be in your native tongue," Grant said in a tone which could have cut glass. "Your declaration of Welsh as your first language was really rather inconvenient."

Dylan gulped, and applied himself to reading it. Truth be told, and as Grant had doubtless guessed, he was bilingual - but stubbornness, and loyalty to the wild North Wales coastline where he had grown up (English great-grandfather and surname notwithstanding) kept the Welsh first. He'd have said as much to Nykinnen. Grant's English accent guaranteed that Dylan didn't explain it to him, even without his reputation.

He had to presume this was the real thing. Certainly the penalty clauses were impressive. Violating this was not something you'd do lightly. Or, indeed, ever. So was this what had so unnerved his fellow students? Clause seventeen said he couldn't even ask. You didn't even have to sign this document to be subject to some of its provisions, apparently. You might not discuss having been asked to sign it, regardless of whether you actually did. Dylan wondered briefly whether such a condition was even legal, then decided he simply didn't want to know. Or, that there were other things he wanted to know more.

"Sirs - can I ask a question?"

"Of course," Nykinnen told him.

"Why are you asking me to sign this?"

Grant's eyebrows went up to the point where they were in danger of merging with his somewhat receding hairline. "Do you always ask your superior officers to explain their decisions?"

"No, sir."

"Then why are you asking now?"

Dylan took a deep breath and hoped his grammar would behave better this time. "Sir - because the only consequence would appear to be to me personally."

"Good answer, Cadet." Grant sat forward, piercing pale eyes threatening to bore right through Dylan's skull. "This discussion would be covered by Clause Seventeen."

"I understand, sir."

"Your initial test results, on entry to the Academy, were interesting in a number of respects. This is not unusual. They have stayed interesting. This is more unusual. In such cases, we take candidates who have successfully graduated and carry out some additional tests inside black section."

Dylan stared. "I haven't graduated yet, sir."

"Yes, you have," Nykinnen told him. "Barely. If you choose to take your credits now, rather than stay on for your final half-year. I believe you would be the youngest person to do so, by some way."

"Now, my time is short," Grant put in. "You can sign the document and come with me now, or you can make a decision later."

"If I sign now, is that it? I'm graduated?"

Nykinnen's smile was reassuring - Dylan was starting to wonder if he was here solely to keep Grant from reducing the entire class to gibbering wrecks. "No, Cadet. You have a very good chance of graduating head of your class in June, if you stay on. We won't ask you to make that decision in five minutes."

That said, there was no option. If he wasn't capable of keeping his mouth shut about security matters, he'd make a lousy security officer of any type. And - asking him what he thought of Team Seven? That wasn't what he had in mind at all. No, if they were prepared to give him black section clearance, what harm could it do? And maybe it would open some doors for him. Dylan turned back to the first page of the document and scrawled his signature and the date before handing it back to Grant.

"Sir, I'm very flattered. I have been hoping to graduate top of the class. But if there's something more important I can do, then I would do it."

"Very good, Cadet." Grant put the document back into his briefcase, clicked the locks shut one after the other, and stood up. "Follow me."


	2. Chapter 2

Grant didn't so much as speak to him on the way through the maze of corridors that was ISO. Eventually, he stopped at an elevator, motioned Dylan inside, and only after the doors were shut he inserted a card into a slot, rapidly typed in a four or five digit code, and placed his palm flat on the communicator screen. Biometrics, codes and hardware. This wasn't somewhere you walked into by accident.

The elevator went up maybe two floors, stopped and the doors opened. Dylan took a deep breath and followed Grant out.

Black section was just like everywhere else. Same white walls. Same grey carpet. Same light fittings, even. The guardpost in front of him was exactly the same as those at every entrance into the building, except that the woman behind the screen was a captain doing what would normally be a job assigned to a much lower ranking officer. And the coloured stripe which every wall in every restricted area in the building carried, two inches wide and four feet from the floor was, unsurprisingly, black. Dylan wasn't normally allowed anywhere other than the white of the Academy and student recreational and accommodation areas. The warning on the completely unmissable sign right in front of the elevator doors left him in no doubt whatsoever that black section did not encourage casual visitors.

"Major," the captain greeted Grant as he handed across the paperwork Dylan had signed. "What type of pass do you want for him?"

"Indeterminate term, accompanied, no re-entry."

"Of course. Look this way please, Cadet."

Dylan did as instructed, and shortly found himself the owner of a photo-badge on which he looked very nearly as shell-shocked as he felt.

"Don't try to go anywhere on your own," Grant told him, as if the notice hadn't been entirely explicit on that point. "My security team will not hesitate to take down someone acting beyond their clearance."

"No, sir." Dylan followed him out of the entrance lobby, past a tall, powerfully built and visibly armed security officer who very deliberately cast an eye over his badge, and down another corridor. At the end, a set of swing doors, and then yet another corridor. This place was far from small.

It was only half way down this last corridor that Dylan realised that the doors had labels. Cursing himself, he promptly started to read every one. 'Briefing room two' was followed by a nice prosaic bathroom, followed by "Security one." The next door was marked "Simulator room", and here Grant stopped.

"Simulators, sir?" he ventured.

"Indeed." Grant opened the door, and Dylan followed him in, stopped in the centre of the room, and stared.

He'd never seen a room so completely full of electronics. Not, admittedly, a very large room, but still, it was more than impressive. Every wall was side-by-side consoles, helmets lying on the surfaces. Dylan recognised a couple of them as neural interface flight simulators similar to those that he'd used. One of them was in use, a young woman in the pilot's seat, a tall, heavily built young man perched on the observer's stool behind her. Both wore neural interface helmets linked by a slave cable, and the screen showed steep, rocky terrain through which they were flying at impressive speed.

That wasn't Grant's objective, though. He'd headed over to the opposite wall, to a much older machine reminiscent of something from a games arcade. "Do you remember this?"

"No, sir," Dylan was forced to admit. "At least - I've had a lot of console-based tests. I don't know which one this would have been."

Grant made a sound very close to a snort of derision and flicked a switch on the side of the machine. "And now?"

A black screen, and nine coloured dots wandering randomly about. Oh yes, he remembered this one, and its friends, from the tests he'd had on entrance to the Academy, and at the end of each year since. They were advertised as coordination tests. He'd thought them entirely pointless. This was the reason he was here? Surely not.

"I remember it now, sir."

Grant gestured him into the seat. "Please."

 _Nothing like being well-prepared_... Dylan put on the helmet - he was remembering it all too well now, a horrible torture device with spring-loaded pressure points at temples and nape of neck - and tried to remember what, precisely, this test had involved. Circles, that was it. Circles. And never any instructions beyond that. He sat down and eased his hands into the equally uncomfortable control gloves. Now, what had been the trick to getting the wretched things to circle? As far as he could remember, he'd never found anything that worked reliably. Nothing better than thinking nice circular thoughts and hoping.

He had four of the spots all circling the centre point when he became aware of a conversation going on behind him.

"So who's this then, Major?"

"Academy student." That was Grant's voice. "As you can see, the potential's there. Would you like to put him through his paces, Commander?"

 _Commander_? There couldn't be that many people inside black section with that rank - Grant was a major, Ivanov a colonel, and Anderson, the section head, had the slightly strange designation of Security Chief. Nykinnen was a commander, but Team Seven weren't based in black section, and besides, that wasn't his voice. Dylan balked at even thinking through who the obvious candidates were, lost his concentration entirely, and all four spots promptly wandered off to do their own thing.

"Take a break, Cadet," Grant ordered, and Dylan wasted no time in stripping off helmet and gloves and rubbing his hands uncomfortably together.

The second man snorted. "Our next great hope? Sure, I'll see what I can do."

Dylan swung round, curiosity getting the better of him, and found himself faced with a man not so very much older than he was, certainly no more than early twenties. Shoulder-length chestnut hair, grey-blue eyes, one of the most piercing gazes Dylan had ever encountered. Tall, too. Dylan was very glad to be sitting down. This man had the best part of a head in height over him. And his build - he wasn't particularly broad-shouldered, or extravagantly muscled, but Dylan knew a fighter when he saw one.

The accent was broad Australian. G-Force gave interviews on TV - just occasionally - and all of them were bland middle-American as far as he could tell. But - assumed accents? What were the chances of all five of ISO's crack team having the same accent, really? Nil. Dylan had done his research on the early days of the war, and ISO had recruited from all over. He even remembered the advertisements for one of their early selection camps, before the war had become public, when ISO had been all about space exploration. He'd been utterly devastated to be too young to be considered. So he'd never thought that they were all necessarily American - though it was was a theory that he kept to himself on this side of the Atlantic.

Voice pitch was harder to change than accent. Physical build, harder still, and height near impossible. Looking closely, the jawline matched one person in particular, and the communicator bracelet on the left wrist was more than recognisable. Unless he was very much mistaken, this was the man who'd taken over as G-1 when the Eagle was assigned elsewhere. Dylan was on his feet, very glad to be in formal uniform, throwing his second immaculate salute of the day, before he'd fully processed the fact that he was to be assessed by the new commander of G-Force.

"Lose the salute," the Condor told him. "What's your name?"

"Cadet North, D. Sir."

"Let's try this again. I'm Jason. What's your _name_?"

"Dylan," he managed, eyes still on the other's left wrist. God, the questions he'd like to ask. Starting with the one on everyone's mind - just where _was_ the Eagle these days? What could he be doing that was more important than commanding G-Force?

"And how many of those lights can you make circle?"

"Four," he admitted. "Maybe more, with practice. I still haven't really figured out how the controls work."

"Forget the controls." Jason reached out a long arm and prodded the helmet. "It's all coming from in there."

Dylan stared. "Mental control?"

"EEG sensors in the helmet." Jason pushed it towards him. "This is all you need. The controls do nothing. Just think about making circles."

The helmet wasn't any more comfortable the second time round. And while Grant had, thankfully, made himself scarce, being watched by the Condor was far worse. _Just think about making circles_. He could think about them all he wanted. It wasn't happening. The gloves might be irrelevant, the controls do nothing, but he still needed them to focus.

"Did you listen to a word I said?"

"Leave him, Jason," a female voice put in, this one with an English accent. "It's not easy. Let him do it his way."

Thanking goodness for her intervention, Dylan eased his hands back into the gloves and focused on the spots. Just make circles. Anticlockwise. Round...and round...and round... The white one was easy, the yellow following quickly behind. Then orange, red, purple, blue and on through the spectrum, until all nine dots were tracing the same three inch diameter circle in the centre of the screen.

"Make it bigger," a voice said in his ear.

Dylan jumped and nearly lost it, but managed to regain his concentration just in time to prevent the green dot from wandering out of its orbit. Bigger. Would that mean speeding up or slowing down? A tentative attempt to slow down saw the dots waver and begin to lose coherence. That wasn't right. Speed up, then. Like a slingshot, letting the strings lengthen while at the same time spinning faster and faster...

It started to work. And then everything got out of sync, the spinning wasn't even, the green spot moved out of the circle much faster than he'd intended, and in trying to get it back he lost three of the others beyond recovery. His head whirled, and suddenly all he could see was dancing lights.

"Easy, there." That was a third, male, American voice, and a steadying hand, as Dylan stripped the helmet off and hoped for the world to stop spinning. Only when it had settled did he turn to see how many watchers he had now.

"Not bad," G-1 said.

"Not bad? Jase, he's not implanted - that's downright amazing!" the young woman exclaimed.

Dylan let his gaze drop to her wrist. Yup - the same communicator bracelet was on the left wrist of each of the newcomers, who were the people he'd seen earlier on the flight simulator.

"Like I said, Not bad." G-1 - Jason - looked him up and down. "What else can you do? Fly? Drive? Fight?"

"Um - in your terms, sir, none of them. In Academy terms, I can fly and I can fight."

"You're in here now. Flight simulator first, or sparring match?"

Dylan gulped, quite sure that he was reacting exactly as the Condor expected, but unsure what else to do. Overconfidence had to be wrong - and who, precisely, did they plan on having him spar with? - but was false modesty any better? What he had said was true. He might be an easy six inches shorter than many of his fellow students, but there wasn't one of them that could get the better of him physically.

"Sir, I can't spar dressed like this."

"You need time to get changed before someone attacks you?"

"No, sir." Dylan flushed - he was being manipulated, he was sure of it. "Just - I'd rather not trash my one formal uniform. Major Grant brought me here right out of what I was expecting to be a mid-year interview."

"Did he now? Maybe he has a sense of humour after all. We can -" and all three of them froze, as the lights dimmed and a siren went off. "Damn."

They were out of the door before Dylan even thought that this meant that he was on his own in black section. From what Grant had implied, liable to be shot if he set foot outside the door. Not that he'd have dared call any of them back, even if he had realised before they'd gone.

Fortunately it was the same captain on the reception desk when he used the intercom to explain his problem. She assured him that someone would come for him - he could almost hear her 'so leave me alone, I'm doing something important here' - and broke the connection.

Dylan sat back down in the simulator chair and considered the screen. What now? Practice? He'd have liked to - but he was in here alone. He wasn't at all sure where firing up the machine without supervision would come, compared with going anywhere on his own. Not worth the risk, in his opinion. If this was considered to be lack of initiative, well, that was too bad.

Twenty minutes later, the door swung open. Dylan was on his feet instantly, hands out in his best non-threatening posture.

"Dylan North?" This voice had a distinct Russian accent.

"Yes, sir."

The other laughed. "Nobody calls me 'sir'! I am Dimitri Andianov. I understand you are our latest trainee candidate."

"You understand more than I do, then," Dylan told him, letting his hands drop and relieved beyond measure to see someone who wasn't here to tear strips off him for doing the wrong thing. "Major Grant brought me in here to clear up some anomalous test results."

"Test results? For that machine?" He pointed to the one that Dylan had been sitting at.

"Yes."

"If you can work that one, you're a jump-pilot. That's very rare. They didn't tell you?"

"They didn't tell me anything." Dylan fought hard to keep his voice level and not show his exasperation.

"I had heard that there was an Academy student with potential." Dimitri frowned. "I have been asked to collect you, but Major Grant was called to the control room before he could be more specific. We will not disturb him there, I think."

"Maybe I should just go."

"I think not. You are in here now. I think you should stay until a decision is made."

"But...where? I've nowhere to go, and you must have better things to do than mind me..." Dylan's voice trailed off as he saw the bracelet on the other's wrist. "Dimitri - I'm sorry - are you the Eagle?"

The other froze, just briefly, and his laugh seemed forced. "Me? No. I am, or I will be if Force Two ever is formed, the Osprey, and I have very little to do at the moment. For now I think that I will take you to Medical. Dr Johnson may know what Major Grant's intentions were."

Dylan followed Dimitri, who was a similar height to the Condor but considerably broader, back through the corridors, now looking subtly different in the reddish glow of the alert lights. This time he took more note of the doors. Nothing amazing, though. Training rooms, briefing rooms, storerooms, offices. Nothing marked 'this way to the Phoenix,' or 'G-Force ready room'. He guessed that even black section had some areas that were more public than others.

The door at the far end of the corridor beyond the entrance lobby was marked 'Medical'.

Dimitri held it open for him, then followed him inside. "Doctor?"

"Is there a problem?" The older, bespectacled man gave Dylan a glance which went from face to badge and back to his face. "Ah. You'd be Dylan, then. I'm Chris Johnson, head of black section medical. How far did the major get with you before the alarm went off?"

"Not very," Dylan admitted. "He had me try a simulator, left the Condor to put me through my paces and then the alarm went off."

 _Left the Condor to put me through my paces_. Saying it was unreal. And brought home only too well that he might have missed his chance. _Damn_. Why would they remember him? Regardless of what Dimitri had said, G-1 hadn't seemed much impressed. G-2 had been encouraging and polite, but he'd had the strong impression she'd have been that no matter how hopeless he'd been.

The doctor considered him. "There's nothing I can do until Major Grant has finished his assessment - and I'll be honest, that's not going to happen while G-Force are on mission, and they could be gone a while. I'm going to recommend you go back to wherever you are normally, and wait for Grant to contact you again."

Dylan swallowed unhappily. "Don't call us, we'll call you?"

"It was the jump-simulator," Dimitri said. "Grant will call you."

"I'm sure he will," the doctor added. "I presume I don't need to remind you what you signed to get in here?"

"No, sir."

"In that case, Dimitri, if you'd escort Cadet North out of black section? I hope to be seeing you again in the near future, young man."

"So do I, sir." Dylan wasn't sure whether to salute or not. He did so anyway, earning what he hoped was an indulgent smile from the doctor, and then followed Dimitri back to the desk where he handed over his pass.

"I am quite sure I will be seeing you again," Dimitri said as Dylan stepped into the elevator.

 _I wish I could believe it_. Dylan simply said, "I hope so too," and as the elevator doors closed he finally let his shoulders sag, following it up by slamming one fist into the other palm. He didn't think he'd ever been so frustrated. He'd been right there with them as the sirens went off and the alert lights came on. What had he expected? 'Hey, come with us and see how it's done?' No, not if he was even remotely honest with himself - but there went another teenage fantasy.

This was the real world. This was ISO. G-Force were out on mission, and Dylan North was going back to the Academy seniors' common room to discuss just how scary an interviewer Major Grant was, and what classes they all needed to take next semester. And somewhere, deep inside, to keep alive the hope that Dimitri was right. That what he could do was special and unusual enough that the next time he was called inside black section he'd be staying. Force Two? He liked the sound of that.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a brown envelope in Dylan's pigeonhole three days later. Full letter size, and with what felt like half a ream of paper in there. His name on the front, with no indication of who it was from or what it was. No postmark, so it was internal.

His heart skipped a beat. Could this be it? He'd alternated between despair and hope ever since his black section test had been halted by an alert. He knew G-Force were back. They'd been back for days - since about three hours after they'd gone out, in fact. It had been all over the news. Scenic shots of the Phoenix flying off into the sunset with bits of mecha strewn across the ground below. He'd waited for the phonecall ever since. Nothing.

"I said, are you coming for lunch?" A large hand clamped on his shoulder. "Love letter?"

Dylan forced himself to relax. "Nah. Course paperwork. I'll join you in a bit."

"Save you a seat." Tim strolled off without a backward glance, oh-so-casually displaying a white envelope which probably was a love letter or similar. Dylan headed in the opposite direction. It really was course paperwork, he told himself. Having skipped junior year at the Academy, he was forever being presented with things which the rest of his class had dealt with months earlier but nobody had noticed that he'd never done. Until it was due yesterday.

Seniors' quarters were on the second floor - his British instincts still wanted to call it the first floor - and were single rooms. Pure heaven, after two years of four-bedded dorms and non-stop short jokes. Dylan shut the door, locked it, sat down in the one chair which would fit in here, and turned the envelope over in his hands again. New, completely unmarked. Probably put there by the sender rather than having gone through the internal mail system. His name, rank and Academy serial number were computer-printed on a standard label. No clues.

It was a security envelope, which was unusual. No peeling this one carefully open and then sticking it back down. Once open it was open.

 _It's either from them or it isn't_. Dylan took a deep breath and slit the flap.

It contained course paperwork. For a moment he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Then he began to process exactly what it was paperwork for.

Early graduation. Courses taken, marks achieved, exemption from other courses based on test scores. They'd told him it was there if he wanted it. Now they were asking him to take a bare scraped pass, without any indication of whether there was a post waiting for him if he did so? They wouldn't do that. Would they?

He flipped through it again, more slowly and thoroughly. This time he noticed the note on the last page, which had a temporary blue section pass attached, valid for today only.

 _Return completed paperwork to Cmdr Nykinnen_ _ **in person**_.

Nykinnen had been there for his midterm review. The one he'd been hauled out of for a black section assessment. Nykinnen had sat there while Grant reduced him to a gibbering wreck. He'd watched while he signed black section confidentiality agreements. He'd discussed the possibility of early graduation.

He'd also asked him what he thought of Team Seven, the ISO dumping ground which Nykinnen commanded. It couldn't be that, could it? Surely not.

If it was what he hoped, they wouldn't want someone who would take wild risks with their entire future. Calculated risks, yes. Doing what was needed. But not throwing away an advantage on the basis of speculation.

Dylan clipped the additional badge on next to his student version and headed for the more restricted areas of ISO. He hadn't signed anything. He wanted the explanation first.

.

The green light was on over the door to Nykinnen's office. Dylan didn't let himself hesitate - he suspected the two people heading down the corridor towards him wearing security team uniforms with Team Seven insignia were coming here too. He tapped at the door, and opened it as instructed.

"Ah. Cadet North," said Commander Nykinnen. He looked over Dylan's shoulder. "We'll be a while," he said to the people outside. "Come back in an hour. Shut the door."

Dylan almost missed that the last instruction had been for him. He did as asked. The red light over the door clicked on, and he cleared his throat nervously.

"Uh... Commander, I haven't signed anything yet. I wanted to be sure."

"Sure of what, Cadet?"

"That... that there's an offer involved in this which is more than just a scraped pass for an Academy diploma while I'm still so young that I doubt any security team would look at me."

Nykinnen blinked at him, and Dylan felt himself flush. "I'm sorry, sir. Is black section offering me something? Or is it just that I could graduate if I wanted?"

"Officially?" Something in the big man's tone made Dylan listen even more closely than he had been. "Officially, you have been informed that you have sufficient credits to graduate, and I have been assigned to discuss with you which of the security teams you might be interested in applying for. Unofficially, should you decide to sign the papers, I will be starting by taking you to black section for a discussion with the medical team."

"Medical?"

"I'm sure you have heard the rumours, Cadet."

 _Yes, I just didn't believe them_. For a long time he'd thought them science fiction nonsense. He'd put a whole lot more weight in them after his first trip to black section. 'Unimplanted' had been a term used about him, entirely casually, by someone wearing a G-Force communicator bracelet. He assumed that meant they really did have the ability-enhancing implants everyone whispered about, in at least some form.

He forced himself not to gulp. "What if I'm not suitable?"

"Then your signed graduation papers will have a small accident." Nykinnen sat forward, looking at him intently. "However, this is extremely unlikely. If your medical records gave any indication that you were not suitable, we would not be having this conversation. I am asking you to make a commitment, here and now. You do not get to go watch black section in operation for a few days and then say 'no thanks'."

 _No pressure, then_. "Yes," he said, rather more loudly than he'd intended, and before he could second-guess himself. "That's all I need to know. I'll sign it."

Then, of course, he couldn't find the pen which he always kept in his uniform pocket. Nothing like looking calm, collected and well-prepared as you sign your life away.

* * *

It was the same captain as before at the security station at the entrance to black section. She looked him up and down, then at Nykinnen, then back to him.

"Do you need to be reminded of the rules?"

"No, sir." Grant had impressed them on him extremely thoroughly the last time he'd been in here.

She nodded, handed him a badge with the photo on she'd taken last time, and gave Nykinnen what appeared to be a rather more permanent version.

"Come," Nykinnen said to him. "You've met Doctor Johnson, I believe?"

"Yes." The doctor had told him that he hoped to see him again. At the time, Dylan had thought it politeness. It might just be true. It needed to be.

.

"I like this bit," Johnson said, with an actual grin. "So, Dylan, tell me what you know about cerebonic implants."

"Nothing."

"Let me rephrase that. I'd like to know what the current rumours say."

"Apart from that G-Force have them?" Dylan thought for a moment. "They're supposed to be in the back of the neck somewhere, hence everyone growing their hair. And they don't work if you take drugs of any sort, hence everyone not taking drugs of any sort. At least not when anyone's watching."

"And they do what?"

Dylan shrugged. "Everything G-Force can do that the rest of us can't."

"If only it was that easy." Johnson activated his computer screen and angled it towards Dylan. "I don't have a spare chip to show you at the moment, I'm afraid, but here is a picture. 'In the back of the neck somewhere' is about right - we typically implant two chips, on C3 and C4. Do you know what that means?"

The picture - bone, metal, traces of blood - was enough of a hint for him to remember his anatomy lectures. "Cervical vertebrae. Yes."

"Good. As to what they do... I'm afraid that much of what G-Force can do is based purely on skill and practice. The implants do, however, enhance various natural abilities. Reflexes, vision, hearing and so on. They increase your healing rate significantly. They also provide a power reservoir - a finite one. You get a certain amount of additional speed, or stamina, or strength. And they interface to a jump-drive, in someone who is naturally a jump-pilot. I understand that you are."

"I don't know much about it." Except those rumours again, and some of them were _wild_. Psionic powers? That he still didn't believe.

"No, you wouldn't, and I'm not the person to ask. I'm just mentioning it for completeness. Do you have any questions?"

 _Several thousand_. "Um... what can go wrong?"

"If you like, I can give you a rundown on what the theoretical risks are for spinal surgery and scare you silly. In practice, we have had no issues with candidates who are still in puberty. Nobody has rejected. Nobody has had an implantation fail to work. Nobody's had as much as an infection. We are very, very careful."

"Still in puberty?"

"Adults cannot be implanted successfully. We will do a blood test to be entirely sure that you're not biologically adult yet - we believe that the issue is connected to hormone levels. You're younger than many of our implantees have been. I'm not concerned."

 _So that's why G-Force look so young_. He'd seen the arguments that they were in fact adult soldiers, that only the visors made them look teenaged. He hadn't believed it even before he'd met three of them, who most certainly weren't far out of their teens, if they even were. That explained a _lot_.

He sat and thought while Johnson extracted several vials of blood from his right elbow. A lot of those several thousand questions were either downright daft or unanswerable, but some weren't.

"When would you, um, operate?"

"We've had a delay in our supply of chips, unfortunately. A couple of weeks." The doctor withdrew the needle. "Press there. Now, I believe that Chief Anderson wants to see you. I'll find someone to show you to his office."

.

He wondered if the 'someone' might be the Osprey, but it was a much older security officer in a standard uniform, sergeant's stripes on his shoulder and no inclination to talk. He led the way up several flights of stairs at a rapid pace. Another test? Dylan had his suspicions. He'd also taken his fitness very seriously for much longer than he'd been at the Academy. Anything a thirty-plus man who probably spent most of his time on guard duty could manage wasn't an issue for him.

The stairs ended practically in the rafters on a tiny landing with a single unlabelled door, and his escort tapped on it without giving him a moment to pause. Opened the door for him, gave him what looked almost like an encouraging grin, and headed back down the stairs. There was nothing to do except go in.

Lots of desk space, a single computer with two screens, much paperwork, box files filling almost every space under the desk, a couple of basic office chairs, and possibly the most recognisable man in the world seated in a much more sophisticated black leather version, turning at his entrance.

"Sir, I'm Dylan North."

"Indeed. Sit down, Dylan. I understand you want to be a birdstyle operative?"

 _So that's what they're called._ Dylan did as he was told, being sure to sit up straight, hands together correctly. What was it with these _do you want_ questions? Of course he wanted to be one. So did everyone in the Academy. Why else would anyone be here?

Anderson was watching him intently over his glasses. " _Do_ you want to be a birdstyle operative, Dylan? Or is it that you think you should want to?"

"I..." He swallowed. Truth? Or his carefully prepared phrases?

Only people who thought they should want to would prepare phrases that they thought others wanted to hear, surely.

"Sir, I've been obsessed with spaceflight since... well, since before the war started. I applied for ISO's first selection camp. I want to go into space. Spectra's in my way. I want them out of the way, and I'll do anything I can to help make that happen."

"You don't think G-Force is capable?"

"I think they're beyond capable. But they can't be two places at once."

Anderson nodded, expressionless. "ISO's first selection camp? How old were you?"

Dylan flushed. "Eleven. They didn't accept me."

"So what did you do?"

 _Cried myself to sleep for a month_. "I taught myself all the maths and physics I could, and everything else I thought astronauts might need. When the war started and G-Force hit the news, I added martial arts to it. And I applied for the ISO Academy every year until they took me."

"But you didn't learn to fly."

"I wanted to. But it's a lot of money for a private individual, and I wasn't old enough to join any of the organisations which offer it for free."

"I see. So your flight experience consists of what you've had at the Academy?"

"Yes, sir." He considered adding a comment about just how little that was, and decided against it. Anderson must know that Academy students trained on simulators most of the time, with the bare minimum of actual flight hours required to pass basic flight.

Anderson considered him, steely grey eyes over the top of his glasses. "And what do you think we should give you as a cover occupation?"

 _A what?_ "Sir... sorry, I don't follow you."

"None of our birdstyle operatives are listed as such on their resumes. Similarly, you will need something which makes sense to your erstwhile fellow students. You are, after all, throwing away your chances to graduate top of your class. What would make you do that - apart from a black section appointment, of course?"

"Team Three," Dylan found himself saying. It was, after all, the truth. He suspected this man would be aware of it already, or could have guessed. Team Three was what every Academy wannabe pilot wanted, not least because it was just barely accessible. The top couple of graduates had made it there last year. Of course, they'd aced every flying elective available in the last semester at the Academy. He'd just walked away from the chance to take any of those courses.

And, to his complete astonishment, Anderson nodded. "As I believe Doctor Johnson told you, there will be a delay of a couple of weeks in your implantation. You'll start at Team Three on Monday. Report to Commander Smythe at oh eight hundred."

Dylan stared, disbelieving. "But I... what do I tell people?"

Anderson cleared his throat. "Cadet North. If you are to be a black section operative, then telling people what you are doing outside black section while making no reference to what you are doing within it cannot be an issue for you. You tell them that you have chosen to graduate early in order to take up a probationary assignment to Team Three. Your paperwork will support this. Everything else is up to you. Dismissed."


	4. Chapter 4

Commander Smythe's office was almost completely unlike Anderson's. Huge, immaculately tidy, not a file in sight, four or five computers, those he could see showing different flight-related screensavers. The walls were almost completely covered in framed pictures of planes, everything from aged biplanes to twentieth century propjets to ISO robot planes to Riga fighters. And, of course, the streamlined beauties which Team Three flew. ISO Z-17s. Dylan had dreamed of being in this office, handing over this set of paperwork, from the moment he'd arrived at ISO and no longer needed to dream about acceptance to the Academy.

Now he'd rather have been anywhere else. It hadn't occurred to him that not even his new commanding officer would know why he was really there.

Commander Smythe - short, with a crisp traditional military haircut and a perpetual frown - seemed to take forever to read through the transfer papers. When he looked up, the frown was even heavier.

"Cadet, is this a joke?"

He couldn't figure out where to look. The picture of the G-1, just above Smythe's head, seemed safest. "No, sir."

"You have no flight experience in a Z-17 and precious little in anything else. You haven't taken any Academy flight electives. You've spent two and a half years total in the Academy and you've graduated early because you're good at academics. Do everyone a favour, kid. Go say this was a mistake and you've changed your mind. Graduate top of your class. Apply again in eighteen months when you're ready. I won't hold this against you.

 _In eighteen months I'll be too old to be implanted - not that black section would look at me twice_. Eyes fixed on that picture - was it the Eagle piloting, or the Kite? - Dylan shook his head. "Sorry, sir, I can't do that."

Smythe's eyes were on his. He could feel them, and didn't dare look until there was a snort.

"Very well, Cadet." He raised his voice. "Lieutenant Morton? This is Cadet North. Standard simulator assessment. I want to see it before he moves on to live flight."

.

Morton was half a foot taller than he was, at least half a decade older, and had his left arm in a sling. His frown was almost as heavy as his commanding officer's. Dylan guessed that 'grounded for medical reasons' crossed with 'playing nursemaid' wasn't much to his taste, and decided to give the friendly chit-chat a miss unless the other started it.

He didn't.

"Flight log?" was the first thing he said when they reached the simulator.

Dylan handed it over, and Morton flicked through it one-handed, disbelief written all over his face.

"This is _it_? Kid, you're in the wrong place."

"This is the assignment I was given," he repeated stubbornly. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing.

Morton grimaced. "Fine. Have it your own way. Do you even know what the standard simulator assessment involves?"

"No, sir."

"Didn't think so." He reached past Dylan and flicked switches on the console. "I'll give you the on-screen prompts. If you need more help than that, it's an automatic fail."

 _But I've only been here for ten minutes!_ Dylan didn't say it, but his face must have given it away, because Morton sighed.

"This isn't the Academy, kid. This isn't a training team, either. The rest of my wing is out hunting mecha, and since I'm grounded, that includes one of our probationers. He's been here for four months and he's out there _hunting mecha_. Nobody's got time to babysit a rookie pilot, and you'll be a raw rookie for a few hundred hours of live flight time after basic flight because everyone is. You've got what, five hours of live flight total? The last probationer we took had over three hundred, he's now got twice that, and he's _not_ out there hunting mecha because he isn't ready yet. You don't believe me? Put that helmet on and show me what I'm missing."

Dylan put the helmet on. He did, at least, know how to activate the neural simulator controls.

Of the five planes in the assessment, he'd flown none for real, and only one simulated. The fifth, the Z-17 which was what Team Three actually used, he couldn't even get off the ground. There had to be some trick to it. Probably something to do with how there were dozens more controls in front of him than in any plane he'd been checked out on.

"Enough," said Morton finally, and Dylan stripped off the helmet wondering whether he'd have an audience. No - just Morton. The pilot didn't even look amused. Embarrassed, maybe. Bored.

This had to be hazing, surely? They couldn't really be deciding whether to take him based on this? Anderson couldn't have expected him to be able to do it. Could he?

Morton reached past him and did something to the console. "With me, Cadet," he said, and headed out.

.

Commander Smythe was leaning back watching one of the screens as they entered his office again. He did look amused. Dylan could only imagine what was being replayed on it.

"Lieutenant Morton? Your assessment, please."

Morton glanced at Dylan, making a decision. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

"Of course."

"Waste of my time, sir. And yours. He shouldn't be here."

"That's not fair!" Dylan hadn't intended to say anything at all, but... no! This wasn't right! He'd done everything he'd been asked to the best of his ability.

"Cadet, you're incompetent in a plane."

Dylan saw red. "I'm incompetent in planes I've never been checked out on. And, since I've graduated, I believe that's _Lieutenant_. Not Cadet."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Morton. That will be all." Smythe fixed Dylan with a decidedly unimpressed glare, and Dylan withered inwardly. He wanted this day over. Actually, he wanted the last four days over, to bin that graduation paperwork, and to be in a navigation class right now. Top of it. Being asked to do things he had some chance of success with.

As the door closed behind Morton, Smythe sighed. "Yes, Lieutenant, you would be correct about your rank. Since you're insisting on it in public, I can no longer pretend that there's been some misunderstanding and you're still an Academy student. You're unsuitable for Team Three. I'm transferring you to Team Seven, effective immediately."

"But you can't -"

"One more word, mister. Just one, and you'll be going with a disciplinary record. Now, get out before I call security to have you thrown out. Team Seven is on the ground floor, I believe. Do I need to have you escorted there?"

"No, sir," Dylan heard himself saying. He just barely managed to stop himself slamming the door.

.

Team Seven was at least, he considered as he drifted unhappily down the corridors, the home of Commander Nykinnen, who would be able to get him into black section to confess his abject failure to Anderson. Cover story? He'd lasted barely two hours, and they hadn't taken him seriously for two minutes. What would Anderson do? This was, surely, supposed to be the easy bit. The thing he could do as an unsupervised newbie to take up time until the black section medics were ready for him.

Black section weren't going to want him after this. Team Three? They'd never look at him _ever_.

A tall young man with blond curls leant against the wall next to Nykinnen's office as Dylan approached. The light over the office door was red. Just what he needed: Nykinnen busy, and a queue to see him.

"Dylan North?" the blond man asked as he hesitated.

"Yes." He wasn't sure he could manage a whole sentence.

"The commander will see you in a few minutes. Coffee?"

"No." He leant against the opposite wall, shut his eyes, and tried not to shake.

There was a hand on his shoulder. "You need it. Come on."

This had to be the Team Seven commonroom. Tables, chairs, people, conversations in a wide variety of languages. A couple of neural simulators over to one side, not currently in use. An industrial scale coffee machine at the other side, rather more in use. Nobody paid him the slightest attention. Not yet. Dylan was under no illusions as to how long it was going to take for this morning's debacle to become public knowledge. Maybe it was already getting out, based on that last comment. Selected video clips from his performance on the simulator couldn't be far behind.

The blond man waved him to go first at the coffee machine - finally, something with controls he understood - and proceeded to, well, _hover_. Protectively, Dylan would have said. Just making sure nobody else came close, talked to him, interacted with him at all. That suited Dylan just fine right now. He was struggling to control his breathing sufficiently to sip what was decent decaf. Talking wasn't an option.

A few minutes later there was the buzz of an intercom. "Lieutenants Shayler and North, my office, now," Nykinnen's voice said.

Dylan almost missed that this included him - why would someone else be involved? But the blond man stood up, abandoning his coffee, and Dylan hastily did the same and followed him. What else could he do?

The green light was on, and Nykinnen's office door was open. Dylan followed Shayler in, shut the door behind him, headed for the remaining chair. _Just keep your mouth shut_ , he told himself. _Don't make it worse_.

And Nykinnen said, "Dylan, we owe you an apology."

 _This is it. This is where they say they made a mistake in offering me an implant_. Dylan said nothing, focusing on breathing steadily and not breaking down.

"Team Three was never going to be your cover story. For a start, it's not practical. They're far too timetabled, especially their probationer section - they're in the air ten hours a day. Your absences would be obvious. Team Seven is the only team where we can hide black section activity."

He heard the words. He understood the words. He just couldn't quite understand that they applied to him. Not his cover story? Never going to be? "Then... why?"

"Two reasons. The first is that nobody would believe you graduated from the Academy early for Team Seven. They'd wonder what was really going on."

"I'm afraid the second is my fault," said Shayler. "See, my cover story is also Team Seven. It has been for a while - too long. I'm good at what I do, and if I was just a security officer I'd be looking to move on. So I need a reason that I haven't. Hacking the computer system to put my friend's name next on the tryout list for Team Three, and getting caught, will do nicely."

Dylan frowned. "Why wouldn't you have put your own name next?"

"My name was right after yours - poke them in at the same time and they go in alphabetically, which is fortunate. I'm a better pilot than you are, good enough that I should be there. We needed them to look into how you were on that list at all, so they'd see electronic fingerprints all over your entry and the same on mine next to it. And my cover story stops being Rick Shayler, been in Team Seven far too long, and goes to being Rick Shayler, darn lucky to still be in Team Seven at all what with the trick he pulled."

"And mine is... Dylan North, arrogant kid who thought he could waltz onto Team Three and now has to work his way up instead?" He'd been in shock before, once, when he'd broken his right forearm in five places falling off a climbing wall. He'd felt much like this then. Unreal, floating, the world a different shape from how he'd always thought it was. Tryout list? No wonder they'd reacted like that when he'd showed up and presented transfer papers, as if being accepted was a done deal.

"Yes," said Nykinnen. "Exactly. It isn't going to be easy, because the rumour mill will know all about what happened within a few hours at most. I hear you have quite a temper. Commander Smythe was most unimpressed. He felt I should know what I was taking on."

He looked at the floor. "I should apologise to him."

"Absolutely _not_. He doesn't know what's going on and we plan to keep it that way. Plus, would the arrogant kid do that?"

"I guess not." He gulped, as practicalities began to surface. "Does everyone here have to hate me?"

"You're sixteen years old. Everyone here is going to be wary of you anyway. You've got a lot to prove to them, but I see no reason you can't go with 'screwed up big time, major shot of reality, turned over a new leaf.'"

"I can do that." It wasn't what he'd expected. Or wanted. But... maybe he'd needed that shot of reality for real. He'd been worried about the standards for Team Three, but he hadn't thought it was implausible that Anderson could simply transfer him there; he'd keep his head down and work hard, and he'd catch up. Three hundred hours just to be a probationer, Morton had said. That was a lot of flying. And that was to be a Team Three probationer, not an active pilot at all. Goodness only knew how much experience he'd need to be a serious birdstyle operative. And he'd told the Condor he could fly. That alert which had called G-Force away might just have been the luckiest break of his life.

One thing was nagging at him, though, and it finally came into focus. All the secrecy about his connection with black section, and here was Nykinnen talking about it in front of Shayler as if it was nothing?

"Lieutenant, can I ask... why do _you_ need a cover story?"

And the blond man grinned and held out a hand. "Good question. My callsign is Kite. And, since I'm supposed to be your partner in crime, you'd best start calling me Rick."

"Indeed," said Nykinnen. "You'd also best start looking darn contrite, both of you, since I have of course been tearing strips off you throughout this discussion. Dylan, I have your Team Seven paperwork here and your regular blue section clearance, no need to worry about that. Rick, can you show him the ropes, get uniform ordered and so on? And then you should introduce him to our simulators."

"Let me guess," said Rick, entirely relaxed and not at all contrite. "You want to learn to fly the Z-17. Followed by the G-1."

 _Oh, if only_. After this morning? 'Want to' and 'ready to' were gulfs apart given his current flying skills. Being taught to fly ISO's frontline fighter and G-Force's attack plane by G-Force's lead fighter pilot was a dream. Or it would be when he was somewhere beyond a complete novice. He'd known that "good" in Academy terms wouldn't be good outside it. He hadn't fully appreciated just how far from good it would be. And now he was being asked about it by a superstar pilot who was, surely, just as far from good in the other direction.

"The Z-17 wasn't the only plane on that assessment I couldn't fly," he admitted. He had to force himself not to add 'sir'. He'd been responsible for keeping G-5's cover story intact? No wonder they hadn't told him what was really going on.

"No? Let's go download the records and take a look. I'm afraid they need to escape into general circulation anyway, to fuel the rumours."

"Team Three's records?"

"I did mention I was a hacker?"

"Oh. You're really a hacker?" He'd assumed that was all part of the cover story too.

"I'm really a hacker, and this time my electronic fingerprints _won't_ be all over it. I'm also a fully qualified flight instructor, part of whose visible punishment for this little escapade is going to be to sort your flying skills out."

The Kite. A G-Force team member. Here, now, talking to him, offering to teach him to fly. Dylan wasn't sure he believed it. For now, he'd not worry about that. He still had a future after all, and that was enough.


End file.
